


Why We Fight

by Ffordesoon



Category: Kim Possible - Fandom
Genre: Angst, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:17:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ffordesoon/pseuds/Ffordesoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shego's diary entry after Stop Team Go. Hopefully better than it sounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why We Fight

Dear Diary,

So today was weird.

(The last three days, really, but it all runs together in my head.)

I think I'm in love. With a girl. Who I fight and try to kill. For money. And Iceland. I realized this because I was shot with a ray from a helmet that turned me into a giggly little schoolmarm who had cute names for her hot chocolate and struggled desperately ( _so_ desperately) not to dot every "i" with a damn _heart_.

Diary, dare I ask at what point my life began to resemble a terrible game of Mad Libs?

Considering I just bought you three (four?) days ago, I doubt you'll tell me the answer. Goddamnit.

You know, I'm looking back through your pages and seeing these fucking girly curlicues and heart-dotted i's and all I can think is how much I wish I was still the goody-goody fluffy-bunny airhead who wrote that crap.

Because then I could be near _her_.

How sad is that, Diary? We've fought each other a thousand frickin' times, once damn near to the death, and she finally beats me by smiling at me. Pretty sure there's some irony in there somewhere.

It's a sick joke, man.

(Wait, are you a man now? Apparently so. Hm.)

It's a sick friggin' joke. I try and I try and I try to kill her and maim her and punch her in the face for _years_ , and then we go to a movie and take some pictures and suddenly I wanna _kiss_ her? It makes no sense.

No sense at all.

I know, I know - "Love doesn't have to make sense." Blech, spare me that greeting-card horseshit. Of course love has to make sense, otherwise...

Otherwise she'd be with me. Me, not her fucking stupid sidekick who loses his pants all the time and carries a fucking rat in his pocket and gets C's on everything – oh yeah, I saw that asshole's report card! - and probably couldn't satisfy a virgin and, and...

Well, I guess that doesn't make much sense either.

Great, now she's made me hope. We know what hoping gets us, don't we, _Kaitlyn_? Ask for a treehouse for Christmas and you get a comet that wrecks it and kills your fucking parents. Ask Derek Wong out on a date and you get Carried worse than Carrie. Oh yes, Diary, I know what hope does to you. You take off your armor and you show yourself in all your weakness and get punched in the throat for it. No thank you. Give me resentment any fucking day, man.

Whoa, I was just reading that back to myself, and I was thinking about if someone else read that, and they'd say that that "explains" me. And I'm not sure they would be wrong.

Fuck me, am I that boring? That cliche? "Ooh, I had a bad life, so I decided I'd _be_ bad, nah-nah-nah!" Damn, is that _me_?

No. No, it's not. I'm...

Shit.

No, I'm _not_ crying, Diary. Shut up. Fucking asshole. You fucking did this to me, you stupid thing! I don't even know why I'm telling you this! I just... I'd _started_ it, you, whatever, and...

I'm gonna throw you in the incinerator, just you fucking wait. I'm gonna

...

This is the letter I'm never going to send her:

Kim,

 ~~You're beautiful and I'm in love with you and~~

 ~~You're a big girl now~~ – NO!

After this whole... _thing_ , I guess you're probably wondering why we can't just be friends or something stupid like that, why we have to keep fighting. You wanna know the truth?

 _I don't know._

Stupid, huh? You probably thought there was gonna be a real answer there, didn't you? There's not one. I'm just a dumb broad who wants what she can't have, and you're the girl who keeps me from having it. Because you're amazing, and I'm not. I'm an idiot. I can't just _tell_ you what I want. I can't even admit that I want it. I'm stuck in a holding pattern because I'm pathetic. I'm not honest with myself and I'm pathetic.

And I _know_ that! I've figured it out, but I'll never tell you that, because I like seeing you. I can force myself to raise a hand against you because it's the closest I'll ever get to holding you and touching you. Isn't that sick? Isn't that just gross and sick? The green freak wants to punch you because it's _something_. It's _contact_. I know, it's gross. I know that, and I still do it, but I can't _not_ do it, because that would mean not seeing _you_.

I need you to save me from myself. I need you to save me by hurting me. I need you to fight me so I can see you. Because there's just no other way, unless...

No, I can't do that. I can't say that. Because saying it means I'll never see you and I'll come apart at the seams. I'll just... I don't know _what_ would happen.

So we'll always fight. We'll fight because it's our job and we're enemies and a million other reasons, but mostly we'll fight because we don't know how to do anything else.

Well, _I_ don't know how to do anything else. Maybe you do.

I wish you would.

It was fun being your friend.

-S

And even _that_ doesn't admit to anything, does it? If she ever found this...

I'm going to burn this tomorrow. I have to sleep now. Wish I had my spare clothes.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> This one came out of me wanting to do a Valentine's Day story that was a bit less upbeat than a lot of the ones you see out there. But I missed the deadline by a few months, as is my wont, so it ended up just sort of coming out. A lot of people don't like the idea of Shego crying and whining like this, and I understand that. I can only respond by saying: she talked, I wrote. Sometimes it's like that. Anyway, I think the piece works, as far as it goes. I always liked it, at least.
> 
> Write a review, receive a reply. Won't you feel special.
> 
> Cheers!


End file.
